Saturday, June 6, 2015

As a teen, Dawn Delgado ran from a life on the streets straight into the arms of Jimmy “Mad Dog” Sanchez, a biker who promised to be her knight in shining armor. But his love was just another cage. Ten years later, Dawn is determined to start over again—and be the kind of woman, and mother, she was meant to be. Could it be that Cade “Ryder” O’Connor, a member of a rival club, is the answer to her prayers?

Will He Give Her the Ride of Her Life?

A loyal member of the Sinner’s Tribe, gritty outlaw Cade is another hard-living, hard-riding biker who’s willing to sacrifice everything that defines him—because that’s what losing the cut means. Dawn can’t deny the full-speed attraction that blazes between them, or the safety she feels in his leather-clad embrace. But will Cade’s love lead her down the road to her dreams? Or will she arrive at yet another dead end?

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author, Sarah Castille, writes contemporary erotic romance and romantic suspense featuring blazingly hot alpha heroes and the women who tame them. A recovering lawyer and caffeine addict, she worked and traveled abroad before trading her briefcase and stilettos for a handful of magic beans and a home near the Canadian Rockies.

Friday, June 5, 2015

Zac Montclair's first priority is
to protect his people. With the escalating war between factions of shifters
over land and resources, he has agreed to an alliance between his polar bears
and the Shadowcat Nation of cougar shifters. But the treaty comes with a
condition…he must accept one of their Seers into his Timik and put her under
his personal protection.

Sarai Bouchard doesn't need her
supernatural gift to know that Kyle Carstairs's obsession with controlling her
ability will eventually result in her misery and demise. Her power is essential
to her people's survival, so when Kyle goes rogue, she's sent to Zac Montclair
to keep her safe. However, her visions reveal that while staying will lead to
their becoming lovers, it also leads to his death. Leaving Zac will result in
her own.

If Sarai can't find a way to
change the future, she will be forced to choose…save her lover or save herself.

Excerpt

Book 2:

Sarai concentrated on precise,
sharp movements with as much power as she could muster. She’d only been working
out for ten minutes or so. She’d started the day similarly yesterday. She cooked breakfast, eating with the
guys. She dragged George and Scott on more sightseeing trips. Today she’d
decided to explore a small portion of Central Park. She didn’t try to lose them
this time. When they’d got home, they’d hit the gym.

Now, Sarai tuned out Scott and
George—who were sparring across the way from her—to focus on her own drills.

“How about you try that out on a
man who moves and reacts.”

Sarai spun on her heel to find
Zac standing behind her. He was wearing running pants and a tight tank top,
which meant she didn’t need to use her imagination to picture the muscles of
his arms and chest. They were on display. Her own personal show. Sarai
swallowed.

Then she computed what he’d said.
How was she going to get out of this? The truth was she couldn’t spar. Her
visions messed her up. But that was a secret she had no intention of sharing
with three people.

“Not really a good idea.”

He stared at her for a long
moment. Then he glanced over her shoulder at George and Scott who’d stopped to
listen. “I’ve got this, fellas. Why don’t you go back up to the apartment?”

There was no doubt in her mind
that was a command, not a suggestion. Clearly the guys thought so too. She
watched them leave the room with wide eyes.

As the door closed behind them,
Zac’s hands landed on her shoulders, turning her to face them. “Okay, kuluk. It’s
just you and me now. What are you not saying?”

Sarai had never felt this
vulnerable in her life. Or this scared. This man got to her in a way no one
else ever had. How was she supposed to resist that?

“Why is this so important to
you?”

He moved his hands from her
shoulders to frame her face, his fingers threading through the dark blond
strands of her hair. “Keeping you safe is important to me. I need to know how
much you can defend yourself if you have to. It will help me determine just
what I need to prepare for. No surprises. Okay?”

Sarai took a deep breath. He
couldn’t have meant it that way. Just the thought of being important to this
big, strong man connected with the frightened, lonely little girl who’d spent
her life just trying to survive. But she couldn’t think that way. She had to
leave him, and that knowledge made her want to cry.

Seeing her hesitation, he brushed
her cheeks softly with the pads of his thumbs. “Let me help you with this
burden,” he murmured softly, his voice a hypnotic, deep rumble.

Sarai bit her lip. Sharing this
with him really wasn’t that big a deal. She knew she could trust him.

On a deep inhale, she gave a tiny
nod and started talking before she could change her mind. “Okay.”

He gave her one of those rare
little half-smiles, making her suddenly very glad she had agreed to capitulate.
Thankfully, he released her and stepped back, giving her room to breathe.

Andromeda’s
Fall

Shadowcat
Nation

Book
1

Abigail
Owen

Genre: paranormal romance

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

Date of Publication: 12/10/14

ISBN: 978-1-62830-661-3

ASIN: B00PM6T2YW

Number of pages: 258

Word Count: 61,300

Cover Artist: Debbie Taylor

Book Description:

Andromeda Reynolds is being
hunted. After witnessing her mother’s violent death at the hands of a pack of
wolf shifters, Andie has devoted her life to protecting her community of cougar
shifters from a similar fate. But now, a greater threat lies within her own
dare, and she must run. If she stays, Kyle Carstairs will force their mating, seeking
the added political power their union would provide.

Andie would rather chew off her
own foot than end up with Kyle. Though, knowing him, she won’t live long either
way. Andie’s only hope of survival is to mate Jaxon Keller, the Alpha of the
Keller Dare with which she is seeking asylum. But before she can get to him,
Andie must first go through A.J., one of the Alpha’s Protectors.

What Andie doesn’t realize is
that A.J. has secrets of his own. All Andie knows is that the incredibly
frustrating shifter insists on challenging her story, her skills, her trust…
and her heart.

Andie scowled.
“Don’t let my size fool you. I can pack a wallop when I want to. Even with a
broken arm.”

A.J. laughed.
“I’m sure you can.”

Andie stared
straight ahead, her mouth thinning. She hated being patronized. Men were so
dense sometimes. They never took her seriously until she showed them exactly
why they should.

Keeping her left
arm protected, Andie suddenly dropped. One leg shot out and she spun low to the
ground, sweeping A.J.’s feet out from under him. As he landed on his back, she
was on top of him, her knee on his windpipe—not crushing, just sending a
message.

Before she could
gloat too much, though, she was flying through the air. Andie tucked into a
back flip, landed on her feet, and then spun and launched herself backwards in
a one-handed back handspring. A.J. had just gotten on his feet when her legs
wrapped around his neck. She used her momentum to drop him back to the floor.

Andie rolled and
ended up in a crouch close by. A.J. held up his hands in surrender. “All right,
wildcat. You’ve proved yourself.”

Andie glared at
him. “Don’t doubt me. And don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you just
lost either,” she said in a severe voice, made harsher, perhaps, by the fact
that she’d just realized exactly how incredible his blue eyes were. They were a
vibrant color made even more interesting by the black ring that rimmed the
irises. And she was more than irritated with herself for having noticed that at
all.

He levered
himself up off the floor. “Fair enough.”

The only thing
that kept her from proving her point more—because she could tell he’d held
back—was the small amount of respect she could see in his eyes. With a brusque
nod, she followed him down the hall.

Award-winning paranormal and
contemporary romance author, Abigail Owen was born in Greeley, Colorado, and
raised in Austin, Texas. She now resides in Northern California with her
husband and two adorable children who are the center of her universe.

Abigail grew up consuming books
and exploring the world through her writing. A fourth generation graduate of
Texas A&M University, she attempted to find a practical career related to
her favorite pastime by earning a degree in English Rhetoric (Technical
Writing). However, she swiftly discovered that writing without imagination is
not nearly as fun as writing with it.

Synopsis part 1:Jennifer is sexually frustrated and disillusioned with love, a very dangerous combination. Convinced there’s no such thing as Prince Charming, and against her best friend’s better judgment, she places a personal ad seeking a one-night stand. No strings, no commitments, no second dates. Her goal? To restore her faith in men by setting up a single night of fantasy that can never be tainted by reality.

William is a busy executive, newly arrived in the United States from England. Life for him is all about minimizing complications. He doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to share his life with anyone, to have obligations outside of work, or to become entangled in a relationship with an emotional basket case of a woman who’s desperately seeking her Prince Charming. But he does see the value in having an attractive woman in his arm for networking purposes …

**This ebook is Part 1 of the serial romance novel, JUST ONE NIGHT, approximately 25,000 words or 100 paper pages long. The story continues with additional Parts which will be published in 2-3 week increments.DUE TO SEXY SITUATIONS AND CONTENT, THIS BOOK IS DEFINITELYNOT APPROPRIATE FOR YOUNGER READERS**

I
have this plan. It’s not exactly your run-of-the-mill kind of situation, but to
be honest, neither is my life. Sure, I could sit around and wait for things to
happen to me, but I’ve been doing that for years and I’ve got nothing to show
for it but disappointment.

It’s
time to take the bull by the horns and make some big changes. I’m so sexually
frustrated right now it’s not even funny. And yes, I’ll admit … this pent-up
sexual energy may be adding fuel to the fire for this hare-brained idea that
sprouted up in my mind last weekend, but I don’t care. I’m doing it anyway.

I
ignore the call coming through from my best friend Mia. She’ll tell me it’s a
terrible idea and talk me out of it, and I don’t want her to do that. I can
make my own decisions … good ones, as a matter of fact. The lecture she gave me
last week about considering some therapy made me really cranky. I don’t need a
shrink; I need some seriously hot sex with a ridiculously hot guy. I’m totally
taking the responsibility for my happiness into my own hands, and no one’s
going to stop me.

My
computer screen is glowing, lighting up my face in the dark bedroom, the tiny
corner of which hosts my laptop sitting on a piece of plywood balanced on two
piles of books. It’s the middle of the night and I’m hiding. From whom? No one.
Myself, maybe.

I
live alone in a tiny apartment, the new home sweet home I had to sign on the dotted
line for with very little notice. Why did I do this when I was happily
ensconced in a fifteen hundred square foot, fully-loaded condo in the trendy
part of town? Well, when I found out my fiancé of way too many years was
sleeping with a girl who looks like she should still be carrying textbooks in a
backpack, I took that as a sign that I should move on. Cheating rat bastard
that he is, Hank left me no choice but to start all over at age thirty-five. I
wasted the best years of my life on that asshole. The man I used to love with
all of my heart is now el numero uno on my shit list.

I’m
still weighing the pros and cons of running him over with my car. I don’t need
to totally flatten him to get satisfaction. Maybe just a tap would be okay. How
much trouble could I get into over just a tap? I could make it look like an
accident. Oh, hi, fancy meeting you here, Hank, in the middle of the road …
with the grill of my car. Did that hurt? Muahahahahaaaaa… I’m pretty sure
if a jury heard my story, they wouldn’t convict, especially if it had any women
on it. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and we’ve all been scorned at
some point in our lives, haven’t we, ladies?

Ugh, I cannot think about him anymore. At least not right now. I’m
on a mission to take back my life. No more pity parties allowed.

My
phone beeps. Mia has left a voicemail. Against my better judgment, I play
it out on the speakerphone.

“Jennifer,
I know you’re there. Why didn’t you pick up? You better call me back,
ho-bag. Are you doing that personal ad thingy you talked about after your third
martini last weekend? Because if you are, just stop, okay?”

I
don’t remember telling her my plan. Dammit. I can’t even
keep secrets from myself.

Her
message keeps playing, much to my chagrin. “You aren’t cut out for one-night
stands, you never were. Remember Mike? Remember Jake? Remember that guy … the
one with prematurely gray hair and the flat butt? Shit, I can’t remember his
name. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You fell apart. You liked them right away and then
your heart broke when they didn’t call a second time.”

Yeah,
that’s helpful, Mia. Thanks for reminding me what a loser I am. I could stop the message from coming out over the speaker to
fill my room, but I don’t. I wallow in the unpleasant memories she’s dredging
up.

“I’m
not saying there’s anything wrong with you, so don’t even go there. They
weren’t the right kind of guy for you. Seriously. Call me. You’d better not be
doing that ad. I’m going to come over there and mess you up.” The message ends
there.

I
laugh at my friend’s fake bravado. She’s always threatening bodily harm, but as
far as I know she’s never even hurt a fly. She says all of God’s creatures have
value, even the ones that start out as maggots.

Of
course I’m going to ignore her every word. The old Jennifer would hesitate and
worry, but the old Jennifer would also date a turd like Hank and that’s not
going to happen anymore. My life is about to change … like, right now.

Okay,
back to business.My brilliant plan is to restore my faith in men by
setting up a single night of fantasy that can never be tainted by reality. I
have the whole thing figured out; now I just need a willing partner.

My
fingers hover over the keyboard and I wiggle them around to get them warmed up.
Magic will be flowing from these babies in about five seconds. My approach has
to be short and sweet, clear and up front. I’m not interested in frills. No
flowers, no candy, no diamond rings, thank you very much. I just want one
amazing night with an amazing guy who I can walk away from and never see again.

I
click on the ‘New Listing’ button to start my ad. Chewing on my lip, I consider
my options. How much do I really want to expose of myself? Do I want this
mystery man to know I was recently dumped in a very embarrassing way? No,
that would make me pitiful. That would bring in the vultures. Vultures do not
make sexy dreams come true. I should know, seeing as how I lived with one for
six years.

I
start typing. ‘Single, attractive, successful woman …’ Stopping
there, I chew my lip some more. Should I say I’m successful or should I be more
circumspect about that part of my life? It’s not like I’m a millionaire or
anything, but I do okay in the real estate business. Well enough that I can
support myself, anyway, and every year my client list gets longer. I try not to
be bitter over the fact that I had to change brokers. Wanting to kill one’s
boss is never conducive to a good working environment. Hank took more
than my self-esteem and my heart from me.

Typing
once more, I force myself to have more confidence. This is easy. Why am I
over-thinking it? Just make it happen, Jennifer, make it happen.

My
fingers fly over the keyboard. ‘Single, attractive and successful
businesswoman seeks very short-term, intimate and discrete affair. No strings,
no commitments, no second dates.’ I sit back and read the ad over and
over about ten times. Is it too cold? Too short? Not short enough? Misleading
in any way? Ridiculous? Pitiful? Sassy-awesome? I vote for sassy-awesome.

Huffing
out a breath of frustrated air, I put my hands back over the keys. It’s not
like anyone who reads it will know who I am, right? I have a throw-away cell
phone that I bought today just for this project, and I’ve used a post office
box for my address to set up the online account. I’m untraceable. Anyone I meet
will be checked out in advance by me anyway via telephone so I can conduct a
psycho test on them. Plus, we’ll meet for the first time in a very public
place, so it’s all good. Safety first, I always say.

My
finger floats over the enter button. The angel on my shoulder is crying over
the fact that I’ve given up on love. The devil is doing a tap dance telling me
to go for it … life is too short to wait around for a Prince Charming who
doesn’t even exist.

I
tend to agree with that little devil more and more these days. I press the
button with only a slight twinge of fear in my chest. Now all that’s left to me
is the waiting game.

William

The
unnecessary chit chat is undeniably the very worst part of my workday. The
snickering, the giggling, the twittering… And no, I’m not talking about the
online tweeting kind of twittering. I’d much prefer that to the constant
chinwagging I can hear filtering through my door, for the very reason that it’s
quiet and it wouldn’t interrupt my workflow. Although truly, I don’t understand
the fascination with expressing oneself in one hundred and forty characters or
less. Who honestly believes there’s a single other person in the entire world
who gives a monkey’s uncle that you just bought a carmel macchiato at the local
Starbucks? Only someone irretrievably deluded, that’s who. What a load of
rubbish.

Where
the secretaries find the time to engage in this nonsense when we have so much
to get done is beyond me. The work’s not going to complete itself, that’s for
certain. The bone-idle really get me wound up, can you tell? I wasn’t born to
privilege; my family worked its way to it from near to nothing.

“Rachel,”
I say, pressing down on the intercom button, “could you come in here please?”
If she has time to giggle, she must need more work to do, and I will more than
happy to remedy that little oversight on my part.

“Yes,
Mr. Stratford?” Rachel stands in my doorway, far enough away that I can’t hit
her with my paperweight with assured accuracy. Believe me, I’ve considered
attempting it anyway on more than one occasion. If her head had any more helium
in it, she’d float right out of the building. It’s beyond frustrating. She’s
the fifth personal assistant I’ve had this year and we’re only to June.

My
lips stretch to mimic a tired sort of amusement. A very, very slight level of
amusement. “While I’m pleased to know that you’ve settled into your new
position enough to feel comfortable gossiping with your colleagues, I believe
you have several other tasks which require your attention, and it would please
me beyond measure to see you accomplishing said tasks.”

Her
face morphs into something that looks very uncomfortable. Is her skin made of
rubber? These American girls never cease to amaze me with their expressive
natures. It’s fascinating, really. Like a visit to the zoo or a science museum.

“Sir,
I wasn’t gossiping. I was working.”

Obviously,
she believes me to be a dunderhead. “Is that so? And what, perchance, were you
working on, might I ask?” Leaning back in my chair with my arm extended over
the desk, I begin to wiggle my pen between my fingers, first slowly and then
with more speed. My eyebrow goes up as I wait for her excuses to pour forth.

Expecting
to see her squirm under the pressure, I admit to being a little disappointed
when she doesn’t indulge me. She counts off on her fingers as she relates her
activities of the last few hours, her eyeballs rolling up to the ceiling.
“Well, let’s see … I collated all the reports from the weekly and monthly sales
and made projections for the next quarter based on the information there. I
entered all the new client information into the database. I synched your phone
and your e-pad to your computer wirelessly. I scheduled eight meetings for next
week and put them on your calendar. By the way, one of them is a charity ball thingy
on Friday night, so I also scheduled the dry cleaner to come by and get your
tux so they can have it ready for you in time.” She perks up and stops
counting, her eyes coming back down from the ceiling to look at me. “Oh, and I
found you a date.”

My pen
drops from my hand and lands on the desk blotter with a muted clatter.
“Pardon?” A large hunk of hair falls over my eye and I slowly smooth it back as
I stare at her. Surely I’ve mis-heard.

She
sighs heavily and enunciates slowly, as if speaking to someone who needs a
little extra help. “I said I collated all the reports …”

I
gesture in frustration. “Right, right, I caught that part. It’s the last bit
that I’m confused on. Care to repeat the last item on your list?”

She
dazzles me with a big smile. There appear to be too many teeth in her mouth,
and they’re blindingly white. I glance at my sunglasses on the desk but decide
against putting them on. All I need to do is give the secretarial pool more
fodder for their chinwagging. If I so much as sneeze it becomes headline news
in the office, so wearing aviators indoors is a no-go if I want to continue
striving towards the goal of relative obscurity.

They
don’t realize it, but I hear everything. Not only do I have my inside sources,
but the employees are under the mistaken notion that I’m deaf, dumb, and blind
as well. Discrete, they are not. Being the newly appointed CEO and the son of
the founder obviously makes me an interesting topic for the unofficial company
grapevine, so I try not to let it bother me. I hope after a couple more months
they’ll realize there’s no story here and that their gossip time is better
spent on other subjects. Like on my younger brother, for example. Of course,
for them to gossip about him, he’d actually have to show up here once in a
while…

“Oh,
yes! That’s right! I forgot to tell you!” Rachel advances into my office with
several short, choppy strides, holding out a piece of paper from a stack that’s
in her arms. “I was talking to some of the girls, and they told me you never
get out and that you’re always working, so I took the liberty of finding you
someone. A date, actually. If you like her you could bring her to the ball. You
really shouldn’t go solo to something like that, you know. You can network
better with someone on your arm.” She extends the paper in my direction, still
with that blinding smile going. “You can totally find a date online these days.
You won’t even have to leave the office to start the process. Isn’t that
awesome?”

My
nostrils extend slowly out to either side as my color rises. This is how a
British gentleman expresses his extreme distaste. My upbringing forbids me from
saying the things that should be said to this pleb. I cannot tell her that she
is as obtuse as she is annoying, that she’s completely out of line, and that
she’s begging to be made redundant. Perhaps she understands British body
language, though, because the wattage of her smiling-bulb dims to just a crumb.

“Are
you mad?” The foolish grin is gone and the cringe has taken its place. I’m very
pleased with the result. She’s catching on a lot quicker than her predecessors.

I
give her a perfunctory smile. “Mad? No. I am in complete control of my
faculties. Perhaps you mean angry?”

“Yes,
that’s what I meant.”

“No.
I’m not angry. For me to be upset with you, your actions would have to actually
mean something to me, which I can assure you, they do not. But your suggestion
that your function here includes searching out female companionship for me
leads me to believe that perhaps you misunderstand your role.”

“Oh,
no, I understand perfectly, Mr. Stratford. Your father was very clear when he
hired me. He said I was to do all the tasks you asked me to do on time or
before deadline if possible, make sure your calendar is kept updated at all
times, and to help you assimilate into American culture.” She’s back to smiling
again.

I
search my desktop. Where has that paperweight, gone to?

“Going
out with American women will help you assimilate much faster.” She shrugs once
and tilts her head, obviously very proud of herself.

I
stand, knowing that my height will put me at a distinct advantage over her. I’m
pleased to see her grin disappearing again. “I assure you, Ms. Meechum, that
should I determine at some point in the future that I am in need of a date
as you say, I will neither need your assistance nor your opinion on the matter.
Do I make myself clear?”

She
starts to back up towards the door. “Yes, sir. Crystal clear. I get you loud
and clear. Ten four, over and out.”

“Why
all the numbers?” I ask, wondering if she’s cluing me in to some appointment
I’ve yet to notice on my calendar.

“Nothing.
No numbers. Disregard. Is there anything else you need? I’m about to leave.”

“Leave?”
I look at my watch; it’s only seven p.m. “Where are you going?”

“Ummm,
home?” She smiles. “Come on, William, it’s seven o’clock on a Friday night. You
really don’t expect me to stay until ten every night, do you? I have a date
tonight, and I have to get ready.” She points at her horribly frizzy red
hair. “This kind of magic doesn’t happen overnight, you know.”

“No.
I suppose it doesn’t,” I say under my breath, afraid of what might come out of
my mouth next if I give it enough volume. This girl is destined for the rubbish
heap that contains all my other former assistants. Certainly, she’s done well
in her short time here, but egads … she’s picking out dates for me now?
What on earth could the numbskull have been thinking?

She’s
almost gone before I deliver my parting shot. “Ms. Meechum?”

“Yes?”

“It’s
Mr. Stratford.”

“Ummm
… what?”

“You
used my given name when you were speaking to me earlier. I don’t believe that’s
appropriate, do you?”

She
turns a light shade of pink. “No, sir. I’m sorry about that. We’re just a
little casual around here sometimes.”

“No,
in point of fact, we’re not. Not in this office and not in this company.” My
stern look comes out to drive the point home.

“No,
of course not.” She has the grace to remain pink-cheeked. “Have a nice weekend,
Mr. Stratford.”

“And
you do the same, Ms. Meechum.”

See?
I can be gracious when the situation calls for it. There’s a time and a place
for casual relations, but that time is never when I’m working, and that place
is never here. It’s my duty to keep the office running smoothly, and
observing certain formalities can assist in that endeavor.

My
father entrusted me with his multi-national real estate investment firm that he
built from nothing, and I will not let him down. I’ve trained my entire life
for this position, and no one will stop me from getting it exactly right,
especially not some bird brain, barely-graduated American midwesterner who
doesn’t know her place in the chain of command.

I’m
once again alone in the office, staring at my heavy oak door. My assistant
closed it behind her, and for the first time all day, there’s silence. Sighing
heavily, I sit down at my desk and stare at my computer screen. The desktop is
glowing out and reflecting off my tired eyes. I’ve been here for thirteen hours
and I have much to do before I’m done.

Imagine
… someone thinking I need help in the date department. An inelegant snort escapes me as I remember the overly
enthusiastic approach I received on the lift just this morning from a totty who
works on the next floor up. Her business suits and fine leather attaché case
scream solicitor or lawyer. As is my usual course, I let her down easily; when
she asked me to meet her for a drink after work, I explained that I’m otherwise
engaged.

I’m
always otherwise engaged. Engaged working, engaged traveling for work, engaged
sleeping or eating. That’s what I do. That is the life I have chosen for myself
and I couldn’t be happier. When I need female companionship I find it on my own
and it’s always the uncomplicated sort.

An
inter-company instant message pops up on my screen interrupting my thoughts. I
lean in, my eyebrows creasing as I note the sender’s name. Apparently, Ms.
Meechum has not yet left to create her hairstyling masterpiece. Perhaps she’s
changed her mind about working late.

‘He
seriously needs to get a life outside this place. He’s going to grow old and
wrinkly all by himself without any friends or anything. I tried to tell him
about the date but he threw me out of his office.’

My
chin withdraws into my neck as my brain attempts to determine what I’m seeing.
My eyes scan the small instant message window and note that it’s definitely my
assistant sending it, but I cannot for the life of me understand why it’s
coming to my computer.

My
emotions are … unsettled … to say the least. I lean back in my chair and rock
for a bit as I tap my pen rhythmically on the blotter. Am I angry with Ms.
Meechum? Yes, of course I’m angry. Old and wrinkly… I’ve at lease twenty years
before that eventuality. And I’m certainly not friendless. I’ve loads of
friends and lovers. The little bint truly believes she’s a do-gooder?
Honestly, her cock-up is more pitiful than anything. She’s completely gormless.

That’s
what helps me decide how to react. I’m no longer angry. I’m embarrassed for
her. She hasn’t a clue how a man like me gets satisfaction from his life.

I
will say nothing at all. Let her stew in her humiliation. Nothing I say could
possibly be more effective than what she’ll come up with on her own.

My
first genuine smile of the day erupts across my face as I rest secure in the
knowledge that I’ll be getting nothing but nose to the grindstone, dedicated
effort from Ms. Meechum for at least the next two weeks. I’m actually quite
pleased she’s useless in the technology department and doesn’t know how to
properly use the messaging system I had installed last week.

I
stand up and walk quietly over to my door, cracking it open so I can see her
leave. She’s halfway across the room full of cubicles, the last person in
the office aside from me. She appears to be running, and I cannot help
but allow the chuckle to escape my throat. Oh, life can be so sweet sometimes.
I can almost understand why my father left our family for the Americas when I
was just a teen.

A
stack of papers on the corner of her desk catches my eye. Knowing it’s the one
that she had in her arms when she came to visit, I’m lured out of my office to
look through it. If she lied about the work she allegedly completed, that’s a
serious, job-losing offense. Apparently, I can be intimidating enough that it
causes people to lie about things. At least that’s what my last assistant said.

Reading
through the short paragraphs on about five different papers, I realize Ms.
Meechum actually had the gall to print out personal ads from some online
source. Apparently, my perfect date is comprised of someone who likes long
walks on the beach, poetry, and true love.

“Bollocks,”
I say out into the empty room. She’s definitely going to be fired on Monday.
I’m tempted to send her a text now and just be done with it, but I won’t. Let
her suffer for two days over her gaff and then come in to be fired. That will
be a much more effective lesson for the whole office to learn than letting it
happen now.

I
toss the pile onto her desk and start to walk away, but one of the papers
separates itself and floats down to the floor, landing at my feet. Grabbing it
on my way into my office, I crumple it up in a ball and toss it at my rubbish
bin. Unfortunately, all the years I spent playing cricket have not paid off. I
miss by a good twenty centimeters.

As I
sit, I lean over and grab the paper, throwing it up onto my desk. It remains
there as I consult my calendar, send off five separate emails to various
clients, and confirm my racquetball match for Sunday.

It’s
eight o’clock when I sit back in my chair again and look around the office. I
have such big plans for this place. By the end of the year it’ll be too small
for our operation. My father was content to keep things what he calls
‘intimate’ and ‘friendly’ but I have other ideas. And since I’m the fresh blood
he brought in to make things happen, I expect zero resistance to my
suggestions. So far, he’s been a hands-off owner. He’s more interested in golf
these days than real estate anyway, and that’s just dandy with me. Out with the
old and in with the new. No disrespect meant, of course, but instant messaging
was just the tip of the iceberg for what Stratford Investments will see in the
next ten months.

That
crumpled paper is the only thing marring the perfect harmony that is my
office. I flick it with the end of my pen, but it doesn’t flip over
towards the bin like I want it to.

“Stubborn
little thing, aren’t you?” Leaning over, I push the paper open, smoothing it
out over the surface of the desk. “And who exactly are you, that you
warranted a blind date with William Stratford?” It’s possible the late hours
I’ve been keeping are making me a little loony. It’s the only explanation I
have for even opening this paper, let along talking to myself about it.

‘Single,
attractive and successful businesswoman seeks very short-term, intimate and
discrete affair. No strings, no commitments, no second dates.’

I
frown. This is supposed to be my date?

A
whirlwind of emotions slides across my consciousness. My first reaction is to
be impressed. Ms. Meechum has been paying attention. Maybe I shouldn’t
fire her.

I
read the ad three more times.

My
second reaction is annoyance. Does she honestly think I need to resort to
online ads to find a date? My gaze flicks over and catches the charity ball
appointment on my calendar. Maybe I should take the solicitor from the
fifteenth floor.

I shake
my head immediately. No. She’d expect something after that, a second date, a
third date … and we work in the same building. That would be awkward. Too
many complications.

Life
is all about minimizing complications. I don’t have the time or the inclination
to share my life with anyone, to have obligations outside of my work, to become
entangled in some relationship with an emotional basketcase of a woman who’s
desperately seeking her Prince Charming.

I
read the ad again.

Of
course, Ms. Meechum is right about one thing; networking is much more effective
when done with an attractive woman at one’s side, and the ad does in fact say
that she’s attractive.

But
that could mean anything, couldn’t it? She could look like Medusa and I’d never
know until it was too late. I’m quite sure networking with a woman ugly enough
to turn a man to stone would hinder the effectiveness of my networking.
It’s probably a terrible idea to pursue this person.

It
says she’s a businesswoman too, but these days people think working at a coffee
shop qualifies. How could I be sure she’s telling the truth? I couldn’t,
that’s how. People lie all the time. People tell you who they want to be, not
who they really are. And honestly, I’ve never met a woman who truly wanted a
one-night stand. They all go into the arrangement with hope for the
future, diamond rings on the mind and all that nonsense.

What
strikes me about this ad, though, is that I don’t believe this person is
looking for those things, mainly because she specifically says so. She had the
forethought to attack the very arguments I’ve come up with for looking the
other way. For some reason, I can almost believe this woman means what she
says. It’s a revelation to me. A woman who doesn’t even want a second date.

Knowing
my assistant has access to my emails, I pick up my phone. I have the perfect
solution to my dilemma. First, I’ll phone this person and have a short
conversation, chat her up a bit. If she sounds relatively normal, I’ll arrange
to meet for a cuppa. Then, if she passes muster, I’ll suggest she accompany me
to the charity event. Done and dusted. I am nothing if not decisive.

I
smile as the call rings through. Things always have a way of working out
exactly how I want them to. There’s no reason to suspect that this will be any
different.

AUTHOR BIO:

Elle Casey is a prolific, NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestselling American writer who lives in Southern France with her husband, three kids, and several furry friends. She writes in several genres and publishes an average of one full-length novel per month.

No one in the Prison for Magical
Deviants knows that prisoner Logan Laufeyson has secret identity. He is the
ancient trickster god Loki, in magical disguise on a mission of his own. A
mission that will come to a sudden and disastrous end…

The
woman he's never forgotten

Demi-goddess Sylvi has spent
eight hundred years trying to forget her long-ago affair with Loki, which
destroyed her dreams and got her banished from her home. When Loki escapes from
prison and stumbles through her door with a problem that threatens both their
lives, she must set aside her anger while trying to resist a passion she’s
never forgotten. The fact that her magic can be enhanced by sex makes ignoring
Loki even harder—especially when they must utilize her rare talent.

A
threat of ultimate evil

Thrown together, Loki and Sylvi
must foil a masterful plot that threatens not only their lives, but every god
in existence. It will take all of their power, and all of their long-buried
love, to face the ultimate danger - or vanish and be forgotten forever…

Pain tore
through Loki’s chest, burning through every vein in his body. He roared, his
muscles straining against the chains that bound him to the rock. Despite his
godly strength, he could not break them. Above him, the great snake draped over
a tree limb, dripping venom onto his chest. Its yellow eyes gleamed, watching
him as the fluid seeped from its fangs.

The venom
sizzled when it hit his skin, eating through to the muscle underneath. His
heart must be beating against the air now, no longer protected within its cage
of flesh.

“You went too
far, Loki,” roared Odin, the greatest of the Norse gods.

Loki wanted to
yell back at him, at the crowd of gods who stood around him, but words could
not form on his tongue. I’d do it again, he would shout, if only the pain
hadn’t stolen his words.

“You’ll stay
here until Ragnarok, when the final battle shall take your life. It is a
fitting punishment for your crimes,” Odin said.

The snake’s
venom dripped again, shooting pain through Loki’s body until his vision blurred.
He could barely see the other gods nodding their heads before they turned in
unison and walked out of the clearing in which he was trapped.

Bastards. But he
hadn’t seen Sigyn. His love hadn’t been with them, thank gods.

The venom
dripped again, pouring from the snake’s mouth in quantities only magic could
create. Loki roared, his voice hoarse, and almost passed out from the pain. A
feminine scream pulled him from the daze.

Suddenly,
delicate hands reached out over his chest, attempting to catch the venom before
it fell onto him. Sigyn.

“No!” he roared,
fear for her helping him find the strength to form words. He was close to
blacking out from the pain.

When the venom
dripped onto her palm, she collapsed to her knees. He craned his head to see
her, slumped against the stone upon which he was bound, her golden hair
concealing her face. She’d passed out from the pain.

Terror for her
stole the breath from his lungs. He’d been angry about this punishment, but
never afraid. Not until it risked her. She must leave here. His vengeance
against the gods had been necessary and just. But he didn’t want her to suffer
for it. If the other gods knew how he felt about her, they might punish her
too. She’d done nothing wrong, but it wouldn’t stop them.

He couldn’t bear
to think of her suffering. It was a pain worse than the venom. He strained
against the bonds, attempting to break them so he could drive her away.

She moaned, then
sat up. When her gaze landed upon his face, her eyes widened.

“Go,” he rasped.
“Go from here.”

She pushed
herself up and leaned over him, her tears dripping upon his face.

“Go.” His voice
was so rough it was almost gone. He had to make her leave. His pursuit of
vengeance put her at risk. She would hate him for that. Would likely never
forgive him.

“Never. I’ll get
you out of—”

He roared when
venom dripped into his wound, the pain finally taking him into the blackness.

CHAPTER ONE

Prison for
Magical Deviants, Immortal University

Edinburgh,
Scotland

Logan Laufeyson
gritted his teeth as the guard removed the manacles from his wrists and shoved
him into his damp stone cell. The familiar rage at his powerlessness welled and
he breathed deeply to tamp it down, counting back from ten. He had more
important things to be worried about than an asshole guard.

He’d only been
in this hell three months, after all, and it was temporary. Barely anything
compared to the tortures he’d suffered in the past or the century that his
friend Ian had been locked in here before Logan had taken his place. He’d been
a bastard for leaving Ian rotting in here for so long, but it had been
necessary.

Logan dragged
his shirt over his head and used it to scrub the grit off his face. The worst
thing about the daily prison work detail which he’d just returned from was the
damned sand in the afterworld of Moloch. The best thing about prison work
detail was that the hellish Moloch was exactly what he’d been looking for when
he’d broken into the Prison for Magical Deviants three months ago.

He didn’t mind
spending twelve back-breaking hours a day hauling rocks, not once he’d realized
that the stone was being used to construct the place he’d been hunting for
nearly a century. He could use that time to learn enough about it to destroy
it.

Though washing
the sweat and grime off himself would be the greatest pleasure he had all day,
he ignored the leaky hose in the corner of the cell in favor of using his magic
to change his clothes. He closed his eyes and envisioned a shirt and pants
identical to the ones he wore as his usual prison uniform—black on black. Not
so different from his normal attire.

What was
different, however, was his face. He ran his hand over his unfamiliar nose and
jaw. He was full shapeshifter, able to adopt any identity of man or beast.
Since he was in this prison to take his friend’s place, he’d adopted a copy of
his friend Ian’s face. Alone in his cell, he could change back to the looks he
adopted normally. It, too, was a disguise, but he’d worn it for centuries and
it was comfortable by now.

He had no watch
and no window, so no way to tell time. But he could count on the prison
schedule to be military precise, and every seven days, directly after he was
shoved back in his cell, he had a meeting.

He listened
carefully at the heavy wooden door for footsteps. Silence. It was highly
unlikely anyone would come to his cell before a guard brought a miserly dinner
in an hour. Once he was confident there was nothing but silence in the hall, he
moved to the corner that would be hidden by the door if it opened.

Logan drew in a
deep breath and held out his hands, envisioning flame. A fire, two feet tall
and at least as wide, burst into life in the corner, as if a hearth had been
built. After a moment, a face appeared. The seer was always on time for their
meetings.

“Loki,” she said,
the image of her face flickering in the light of the flame.

“Logan,” he
corrected.

“Fine.
Logan."

He was the Norse
trickster god Loki, but he went by Logan to protect himself from the wrath of
the other Norse gods. He also consistently used his shapeshifting to alter his
face. He had the same dark hair and eyes as he’d had as Loki, but his face was
shaped differently enough that no one would recognize him.

He’d buried his
identity as Loki deep in the past.

“Do you have
anything for me?” he asked. He was so certain she would say no, as she had at
every other meeting, that he nearly lost control of the flame when she
answered.

“Yes. It’s
almost time. The Labyrinthine Prison of Lethe will be complete in no more than
two weeks.”

Adrenaline
spiked through him, driving through his veins and making his mind hum. “Two
weeks? That’s all? Damn it, what kind of seer are you that you couldn’t see it
sooner?”

“The best.” She
smirked. “Of which you are well aware, or you wouldn’t pay me so much money.
Visions come when they come. You need to quit with the recon or protecting your
friend or whatever it is you’re doing in there and go get whatever’s at the end
of the map I gave you.”

She was right.
There was no question he had to leave the Prison for Magical Deviants. He
wasn’t learning anything new here now and Ian MacKenzie, his only friend, was
safely out of Scotland.

“Fine,” he said.
“You’re certain of this? I’ve been on Moloch every day for three months,
helping to build the labyrinth, and it doesn’t look nearly finished.”

In an ironic
twist of fate, the university prison was using prisoners to construct a far
greater monstrosity than the one he’d been caged in—an inescapable labyrinth
prison that would capture and contain the gods. Like himself. Like Sigyn.

He sure as hell
wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Yes. I believe
the prison is designed to make you forget. I saw more in this vision than in
all the others. It’s called the Labyrinthine Prison of Lethe because the
Architect of the prison has diverted the waters of the River Lethe. He’s
created a portal to the Greek afterworld that allows the river to flow through
the labyrinth.”

“What the hell?”
He hadn’t heard the name of the river that ran through Hades in centuries. The
River of Forgetfulness made those who drank from it forget their lives.

“If you’re
imprisoned—which you will be, as all gods will be—you’ll forget yourself
entirely. As will the world. I believe the river Lethe is making even the
builders forget what they’ve built. It’s part of the torture of the
labyrinth—to endlessly toil yet believe you make no progress.”

He scrubbed a
hand over his face. This was a hell of a lot worse than he’d anticipated.
Aleia’s prophesies always came true. Always. The cocky part of him had always
kind of thought he’d be able to break out of the prison if he were thrown in.

But from what
Aleia was saying, it sounded like the river Lethe had already fucked with his
mind. If the prison was completed, he would end up there as prophesied. With
the river working on his mind, there’s no way he’d find his way out before he
forgot.

“It looks like
my time here is up. I’ll contact you if I need you again,” Logan said.

“Aye aye, boss.”
She disappeared into the flames.

Logan thrust
aside the chilling thought of losing his memory in the labyrinth and focused on
what was next.

Escape.

His heart sped
at the idea of finally being able to break out of this hell hole. With the
wheels of the Labyrinthine Prison finally turning, he couldn’t stay, hoping for
more information. Aleia had informed him of the prison’s construction over a
century ago. After a hundred years of searching for it, he was suddenly running
out of time.

Speaking of
time… The guard would arrive with “dinner” any minute. It took only seconds to
tear off strips of the bed sheet. He took up position at the door and quieted
his mind, listening for the coming footsteps of the burly guard.

The guard was
part demon, though from what afterworld, Logan wasn’t sure. Mytheans, as
supernatural individuals of the various species were called, could be
dangerous. The university, which was more of an unofficial government
organization dedicated to hiding the existence of Mytheans than it was a
learning institution, hired all sorts of Mytheans.

Roughly two
minutes later, thudding footsteps sounded at the end of the hall. His cell was
the third and last. It would buy him some extra time, since the other prisoners
wouldn’t be alerted that something was wrong when their dinner didn’t appear.

For old time’s
sake, he’d love nothing more than to bust some of these assholes out just to
fuck with the university. He’d never liked authority figures. But his end goal
was more important than his whims.

He shifted on
his feet, and when the key finally scratched in the lock on his door, he moved
forward. The heavy wooden door swung open and a gruff voice said, “Slop time,
Ian MacKenzie.”

The guard’s eyes
widened when Logan’s fist came at him. They rolled back into his head not a
second later. Logan snatched the tray before it clattered to the ground. The
guard started to slump against the wall, but popped upright half a moment
later.

So that’s why
this bastard was a guard. He was damn hard to knock out.

Logan grabbed
the guard by the collar, dragging him into the room. It looked like this might
be a fight and he wanted privacy. The guard swung at him and Logan ducked, put
the tray on the floor, then slipped behind him and reached up to grasp his
head. It took a second to snap his neck. He turned it halfway around just to be
sure he completed the job.

Logan eased the
massive body to the ground and thanked his buddy Ian for being such a model
prisoner that there’d been only one guard.

Logan quietly
shut the door. In seconds, he had the guard’s hands bound behind his back and a
makeshift gag over his mouth. Though he’d broken the guard’s neck, it certainly
wouldn’t kill a Mythean. And whatever type this one was, his recovery period
was ridiculously quick. He really should have been passed out for hours from
Logan’s first punch.

The last strip
of bed sheet went around the guard’s ankles and Logan figured he had a solid
ten minutes to make it off campus. Maybe even fifteen, if he got lucky.

He’d need only
five. Quickly, he laid a hand on the guard’s burly shoulder and envisioned
himself shedding his own face and form and adopting the guard’s. When the
knuckles of his hand widened and bristly hairs sprouted from the backs, his
face had transformed as well. He magically adopted the guard’s uniform.

Without a
backward glance at the miserable four walls that had been his home for the last
three months, he walked out the door and down the hall. He remembered it from
his time sneaking in to free Ian, so it wasn’t hard to act like he knew where
he was going.

The hall was
empty and silent but for the humming of the fluorescent lights above. They were
out of place amongst the otherwise ancient architectural features, primarily
stone for the walls and wood for the floor. The huge door at the end of the
hall beckoned. Freedom.

When he reached
it, he placed his palm against the metal. Magic zinged up his arm as the lock
registered the guard’s palm. It would have been a hell of a lot harder to break
out had he not been a shapeshifter. Only the handprint of the guard, willingly
given, would open the door.

He grinned as he
pushed the door open and climbed the stairs to the first floor of the
Praesidium, the university department that dealt with security and protecting
those individuals important to humanity. Basically, a bunch of
heads-up-their-asses, full-of-themselves morons who thought they were the
world’s police. Any species of Mythean could work for the university, but he’d
never met one he liked.

When he reached
the door at the top of the stairs, Logan straightened his shoulders and
scowled, trying for an expression as stupid as the guard’s. If he was going to
meet anyone on his way out of the building, it would be here, in the halls of
the Praesidium. And whoever he met wouldn’t be bad in a fight, given that only
warriors worked for the Praesidium.

Still, they’d be
no match for him. He wiped what he knew must be a cocky grin off his face and
relaxed his features into bovine boredom, then pushed out into the rich,
wood-paneled hallway.

A shock of
familiar energy hit him in the chest. He stiffened.

Sigyn. She was
close. His chest ached, his soul seeming to pull away from his body in search
of her. He hadn’t felt her presence in centuries, not since he’d left Norway.
The enchanted shields on the prison must have blocked out the magic that filled
the university buildings above, including hers.

He’d known she
worked for the university and he’d intended to seek her out once he’d destroyed
the labyrinth, but he hadn’t expected to ever be so close to her that he felt
her. She had to be in this very building.

Ironic that the
two things he wanted most in this world—Sigyn and access to the labyrinth so
that he could destroy it—could be found in the same place.

He slammed a
fist against his chest, trying to quiet the pulling of his soul. He was in
control of himself, damn it, and he had a job to do before he could seek out
Sigyn.

But seek her out
he would. Once he’d destroyed the labyrinth and ensured his own safety—and
hers—he would come for her. He’d been waiting.

With a shake of
his head to banish thoughts of the woman he still wanted, he turned right and
strode down the hall to the enormous atrium at the entrance of the building. He
held his breath as he skirted by an open door, but no one called out to him.
The paintings on the wall seemed to frown pityingly at him as he walked by.
With memories of Sigyn driving through his brain, he probably deserved it. He
should be focusing on the labyrinth, not her.

Escape loomed
ahead, the wide open space of the atrium calling him to freedom. The great
double doors lay just beyond. But every step he took carried him farther away
from Sigyn. Her pull was so strong, she had to be in this building.

But he had to
keep going. He focused on what was at stake—eternal imprisonment, not just in
the labyrinth, but within his own lost mind, once the River Lethe stole his
memory. And he had to keep going for her. She was a demigod and would suffer
the same terrible fate if he failed to destroy the prison. The thought spurred
him forward. He pushed out through the great double doors into the cool night
beyond.

He sucked in the
air and grinned. The idiots at the university couldn’t keep a god chained. But
then, that’s why they were building the super prison. Regular Mytheans might
not be able to chain the gods—but the gods could chain themselves. If they lost
their memories, they’d lose the ability to fight their way free.

It was an
excellent plan. Evil, but excellent.

The cobblestone
courtyard and parking lot spread out in front of him, surrounded on all sides
by enormous stone buildings. Old fashioned street lamps shone yellow lights on
their ornately carved facades and ivy crawled up their sides. The courtyard was
empty save for an individual sliding into a car.

Sigyn?

No. He wanted to
see her so he was imagining her. He forced his mind away. He would come back
for her once this was all over, as he’d planned. She was his end goal. He just
had to clear the way to get to her, which meant escaping so he could find a way
to destroy the prison to save both their lives.

To do that, he
needed to find privacy to transform. Ever since his aetherwalking had been
bound by the other Norse gods, he’d relied upon his ability to shapeshift into
the form of a falcon for transportation. He sorely missed the ability to travel
instantly through the aether—that ephemeral substance connecting the earth and
the afterworlds. It was far easier to envision a place and appear than it was
to fly there, but he had no choice.

The courtyard
was too well lit, so he trotted down the stairs and jogged around the side of
the building. By his calculation, he only had a few minutes to spare until the
other prison guards noticed their dimwitted colleague was missing.

He slid into the
shadows at the edge of the stone wall of the building. It was dark enough to
hide the green light of magic that swirled around him when he transformed and
no other buildings looked directly out at him. It was perfect.

He glanced right
to confirm the coast was clear and caught sight of a scene in the window next
to him. A woman danced within a large, well-lit wooden room. A wall of mirrors
reflected her form.

His heart
pounded, beating itself senseless against his ribs.

Sigyn.

She spun about
the room, a blue cloak waving behind her as her lithe form leapt and lunged and
dodged. Golden hair trailed behind her and it was only once she spun toward him
that he noticed the long wooden staff in her hands. Pale wood and elegant, she
spun it about her form almost faster than the eye could see. Her cloak
flickered. It wasn’t real, just an illusion.

She wasn’t
dancing. She was training. Her motions weren’t those of a ballerina, but those
of a warrior. He’d never seen her like this, but he’d heard of her. The woman
he’d cared for eight hundred years ago had been far quieter than the shining
warrior goddess within the room. She’d been strong—capable of protecting
herself—but nothing like the woman on the other side of the glass.

This woman was
all power and grace, strength and motion. She took his breath away. Fire
flashed in her green eyes as if she saw her foe while she practiced her motions.
She moved so fast, a mortal would never be able to see her. It was magic. Quite
literally. Her talents had grown over the years.

His head buzzed
as he watched her and he was helpless to draw away. After so many years, here
he stood, actually near her. He’d only seen her a few times for a few
breathless moments after he’d driven her away all those years ago. He hadn’t
been able to help himself, as he couldn’t now.

He’d made sure
she never saw him, though it had torn at something in his chest to maintain his
distance. It was the only way to stay away from her, though. If he spoke to
her, he’d be unable to leave her. The last time he’d seen her had been over
five hundred years ago.

He’d forgotten
so many things over his life, so many faces and names and places, but he’d
never forgotten her. Not the curve of her slender arms, the length of her legs,
or the shine of her hair. She was beautiful—tall and strong and everything the
Norse gods were supposed to be, though she’d been a demigod when they’d both
left Asgard, home of the Norse pantheon.

He was supposed
to wait until he’d destroyed the labyrinth to come for her because she was a
distraction. Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she continued to leap
around the room, the apparition of the blue cloak swirling around her marking
her as a Vala, a student of the magical teachings of the goddess Freya.

A cry sounded in
the night. Shouts followed.

Shit. He’d
fucking forgotten he was on the run. He dragged his eyes from Sigyn, his heart
clutching as she left his vision, and focused all his energy on envisioning the
falcon form he would take. If he could just make it to the air, he could get—

A shot rang out,
a harsh blast echoing through the quiet night. Pain tore through his gut.

What the fuck?
They’d used fucking guns? Fucking mortals used fucking guns.

Agony streaked
from his stomach through his extremities. Another shot rang out, and this time
pain bloomed in his shoulder. Guards charged toward him through the shadows,
only a few dozen feet away.

He cursed
internally at the idea he’d have to transform in front of them, and thereby
possibly give away his true identity, but there was nothing for it. If they
caught him when he was this injured, he wouldn’t even be able to hold the false
form he normally went by. They’d know he was a god and imprison him
accordingly. In the labyrinth. He shuddered.

Logan gritted
his teeth. He tried to ignore the pain bombarding him long enough to force the
magic through his veins, transforming his muscle and bone to feather and
flight.

It was sluggish,
but the transformation worked amidst the swirls of green magic he’d never
learned how to diminish. Soon he felt the wind under his wings and he climbed
into the air, a fraction less graceful and effortless than normal. Pain ripped
through him with every stroke of his wings and he faltered on the breeze.

The ground was
only a hundred feet below him, not nearly far enough to get out of the range of
bullets. He pushed himself higher, nearly blind from the agony. He’d never make
it off the campus like this. There was no way he had more than a couple hundred
yards left in him, and the guards were right behind him.

Linsey Hall is the author of the
Mythean Arcana, a sexy paranormal romance series. Before becoming a romance
novelist, Linsey was an underwater archaeologist who studied shipwrecks in all
kinds of water, from the tropics to muddy rivers (and she has a distinct
preference for one over the other). Her books draw upon her love of history,
travel, and the paranormal elements that she can't help but include.